


Blend

by Janekfan



Series: Bingo! [6]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Bingo, Coping Mechanisms, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Martin doesn't trust kindness, Panic Attack, Prompt Fic, Triggers, but they're not working, implied child neglect, just a liiiittle bit of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:23:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28963869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Prompt: 'unexpected trigger' for martin? you don't grow up in a home like he did without occasionally unlocking repressed memories.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Series: Bingo! [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085030
Comments: 13
Kudos: 117





	Blend

Shake it off. You’re alright. Nothing you haven’t dealt with before. You made it through then! You’ll make it through now!

Martin let his consciousness stream with all the tricks and coping mechanisms he’d ever picked up from his brief time spent in various support groups with their stale biscuits and cold, bitter tea. It had been a bad morning, his mum’s cross mood from the night before carried over into the early hours and Martin got very little sleep. He’d made her a rubbish breakfast that she tossed in the bin before slamming her mug into the floor--

And it was.

Fine. 

Everything was fine because he would make it be fine. 

He’d do his job and make Tim and Sasha and Jon tea that would be appreciated and they would smile, well Jon wouldn’t but he would find an empty cup an hour later and that was almost as good, and the others would thank him. Martin was _good_ at taking care of people. It’s what he did best and he couldn’t let one bad day ruin that for his friends no matter how brittle his nerves were. 

“Oi, Marto.” Apparently he hadn’t schooled his expression as well as he thought. “You alright?” The concern put him on edge, the soft tone a niggling itch in the back of his mind and filling his stomach with a churning unease. Flee. Run. Escape. Nothing good ever came of being burdened by him. 

So he laughed lightly, hitching his messenger bag a little higher, subconsciously placing it between them. A barrier. Ridiculous. Like Tim would ever--

“Martin?” The hand on his shoulder wasn’t unwarranted and he barely contained the flinch. Wouldn’t do for Tim to notice how his worry, his _kindness_ was clouding his reality, every inch of Martin’s skin screaming for contact and isolation both. He shook his head to clear it.

“Sorry, Tim. Didn’t get much sleep.” He offered up a hollow smile, knowing it wasn’t enough to fool him, praying it was enough to get him to drop it because all he wanted to do, needed to do, was get _away_.

“Okay, well. Lemme know if you wanna skive off.” Lopsided, his grin didn’t seem real and Martin couldn’t stop himself from reading into it. “I’ll cover for you.” 

“Thanks Tim.” Exhaled on a stagnant breath and finally allowed to retreat, Martin tried in vain to slow his racing pulse, burying himself in his translation. 

He waited patiently as Jon flipped through his pages, brow creased in the familiar way that meant he was about to be scolded. Martin knew it wasn’t his best, far too distracted by Tim and Sasha’s questioning looks to truly focus. Jon was quiet. Pensive. Fastidiously tapping the papers together and clasping them together with a binder clip; something Martin forgot to do. Any moment now. Meticulous, Jon set the packet aside, on one of the many piles he had to sort through. Piercing, his brown eyes met his own over the rim of his glasses. 

“Your work rarely contains this many errors, Martin.” 

Jon might as well have struck him, the calm, calculated words so much like a physical blow, and salt flooded his tongue, filling his mouth with a handful of coins like copper choking him, choking him, choking him. It wasn’t right. Jon wore his everything on his sleeve. Easy to trust, to read, predictable. He was supposed to yell. Speak harshly and honestly and just on the edge of too mean. 

“Martin?” There was that _concern_ again, soft and false and sounding a warning so deep in his veins he couldn’t ignore it, rabbiting heart squeezing hot blood through his body and urging him to disappear. “Are, are you alright?” He was coming around the desk, the barricade between them smaller, smaller, smaller, no longer there as Jon stood with some distance between them, arm held out, reaching, but hesitating, face twisted up in fear(?). 

“I’m sorry. Yes. Of course, I’ll fix those files for you.” He was crying, not even trying to stop because he was suddenly in the room with his _mother_ of all people and she didn’t care if he was upset. Only cared if the job was _done_ so he’d do it. He’d do it. And she would love him and mechanically he felt himself move as if someone else was pulling his strings and it was easier to let it happen.

“M’Martin, wait.” There was a hand on his arm, tentative and light and Martin looked up into Jon’s concerned face, snapping suddenly back into the reality of the Archives and catching himself in time to not shrug away. The touch was barely there, easy to remove, not grabbing, gripping, grasping his clothes and hauling him towards-- “Take a moment, here, here, sit down. Catch your breath.” Guided, not dragged, to Jon’s chair, still warm, grounding, and from seemingly nowhere, Jon produced a handkerchief, passing it to Martin and letting their fingers touch just slightly. “There now, alright.” Fingertips ghosted between his shoulder blades and he tipped forward under their silent suggestion, burying his flushed face in the clean cotton, drawing inwards enough that he only heard Jon come back from wherever he’d gone. The door was closed, the shade drawn, the lamp turned low, and the desk between them again as Jon worked on the other side of the desk. Martin groaned, chest aching when he straightened up. 

“Martin?” Firm. Not demanding, but not leaving much room to stay silent and he appreciated it more than words could explain. 

“I don’t. Jon.” He waved away his words and the knotted tangle of anxiety began to loosen. 

“No need to apologize.” Their eyes met and Martin saw understanding reflected back. He could explain or not. There was a choice, but no pressure and the next breath came easier. “Now. I’ve marked the passages that don’t make sense. I’d like this back first thing tomorrow morning, if that’s agreeable, Martin.” 

“‘Course, Jon. First thing.” He accepted the bundle with Jon’s neat cursive blue in the margins and stood, shaky but no longer overcome with the desire to run as far and as fast as his legs could take him. “I’ll be around with tea in a bit.” Jon had gone back to his work but he nodded. 

“Thank you, Martin.” The scritch of his pen didn’t slow and Martin let himself out, closing the door behind him. 

Jon’s handkerchief still clutched tightly in his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, the suspicion that comes with people speaking in a certain tone.


End file.
